


Red (The Statement of Harley Warren)

by Petrochoria



Category: Arkham Academy - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Original Work
Genre: Angst, At least I tried, But not sexy crossdressing, Child Loss, Ernest is a bastard, Gen, Genderbending, Historical Accuracy, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Some Comfort, More like Mulan, Origin Story, Other, POV Original Female Character, The 1920s, Whump, maybe? - Freeform, might become a 'miskatonic mayhem' series, no eldritch stuff here but it's still awful for harley, vague dubcon but it's very quickly referenced, with all the misinformation of the times!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25733803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrochoria/pseuds/Petrochoria
Summary: Alternatively 'Why I had to Crossdress My Way into University, Hence Why Lovecraft Insists on Referring to Me as a Man' by Harley R. WarrenThe family scandal that started it all!(Trigger warning for miscarriage/stillbirth and vague abuse)
Relationships: past Harley Warren/Ernest Aspinwall
Kudos: 1





	Red (The Statement of Harley Warren)

I still have trouble talking about this.

I had no idea. I mean, how could I? Violet was saving that sort of talk for the wedding night. When it went beyond a simple kiss, with Ernest, I had no idea what it was, exactly, that I was doing with him, this forbidden fruit. 

My dresses got oh-so-slightly tight, but nothing truly visible, from the outside. My stomach never grew wide, I never got nausea in the morning or odd cravings, except for maybe the slightest penchant for strawberries. Looking back, I remember occasional flutters against the inside of my stomach, something I’d ruled to have been the effect of nerves, but otherwise, there was never any sort of clear indication that I was in a delicate condition.

And then, my bedroom carpet, dark spots of blooming red, red like roses, red like sunrise, red like rubies in the crown of a forgotten queen.

I remember collapsing into that dark, red-and-white world, the world of pain and iron and thorns. I clutched at that carpet, desperate for it to carry me away like an old story once said. More red ran from my mouth as my teeth clamped down, taking the smallest, rounded sliver of my tongue. Ladies did not scream.

And more pieces of me joined that world, that terrifying, primal realm. One of them, I recognized as more than a piece, another whole, in the blur. Yes, something small and starting to go cold, and above all things, a feeling of mine, mine, mine.

I remember seeing her face-blued lips, red hair-Carter hair, Aspinwall hair- and eyes that never opened. I remember kissing her bloodied forehead and clutching her to my chest, partially out of pain and partially from some sort of irrational hope that my heartbeat could coax hers into being.

I woke up in a different world, a chemical world, an Amelia under linens and glass, mummified, though I still bled. It was suffocating, this cocoon, but it also protected me from screaming sisters, the cold silence, the empty feeling. It felt safe, to wither around that space, to become a curiosity.

I only became more withered when I asked, in a voice drier than the sands of the Sahara, where she’d gone, where my baby had gone. Violet had given me a scornful glare. Gracie was kind enough to tell me that she’d arranged a cremation, and that she’d stayed with her, occasionally looking through the viewing window. 

I cried, ever so slightly. I had wanted her to be buried near the dogwood tree near the edge of the estate, the one that bloomed red with the coming of spring. I had wanted to see her again, to say I was sorry that I couldn’t do the simplest of things for her properly. But Gracie went on and told me of the flames’ extraordinary colors, almost Colour-tinged, but most of all, a beautiful and vibrant scarlet, dominating the others. I nodded. She’d been taken where the kind and righteous go, and that was enough. I merely requested that her ashes be scattered at the red dogwood in spring, a small marker with a name only I had known her by, for her brief moment of time, to be put there, before I let myself go peculiar and still once more.

The worst was when he showed his face again, through my morphine-clouded eyes. He spoke harshly, almost screaming. He accused me of a malicious intent to ruin his family's name, of being a whore, of taking tumbles down the stairs. I didn't have enough energy for a fit. I collapsed into myself, around the bleeding, empty spaces.

Somebody told the press. Soon enough, I was the Warren Harlot, The Demon Lilith, the Scarlet Woman of the Warrens. I became a paper doll Amelia, wearing the titles they threw at me, never complaining. 

The day I went home, for the last time, Violet told me of my disownment. She never said anything more to me, and some part of me felt all the better she didn’t speak.

Gracie helped me pack a few dresses and a small sum of money for my prodigal days. I practically burrowed myself into a red jacket, cut almost like a man’s blazer. 

And something in me sparked, lighting the paper, the linen.

“There’s no more future for me. Not like this. Not as Amelia Arlene,” I said, quietly. “But maybe...a young gentleman, say, from Maryland...he would have a chance to become somebody, find opportunity.”

“Amelia, you aren’t saying…”

“...it’s the least I can do for her. My scarlet flame, my sweet strawberry, my rosy sunrise… my little Ruby. I’ll become someone so much better. I’ll...I’ll go to Miskatonic, like I would have, maybe, if the engagement hadn’t come…” I mumbled, near gibbering.

“You’re the closest of us to Mum, you know.”

I flinched away, trying to ignore the fire-hot memories of the woman who screamed at shadows.

“But...you’re not the only one who inherited a bit of madness,” she said with a sly grin, holding up trimming scissors.

I stood at the bus stop, the remains of my shorn hair tucked under a hat, red coat enveloping my body, poor-fitting enough I could pass for a man on the bus, before I would find better ways in the city.

It pulled up, a gargantuan metal dragon of a vehicle. I paid my fare. “Passage for one Mr. Harley Warren, please.” 

I looked out the window at Gracie, on the sidewalk. She waved, her eyes those of someone who knew this was a last goodbye.

I waved back, wiping a tear, before the bus began to move.

I stayed cocooned for a while, wondering where this new life would take me. The shores of nearby Innsmouth, the great halls of Miskatonic, the stage of a club, or the stones of a street.

I looked to the horizon for answers. The sun was setting. And, as with all of my uncertainties, it was red.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my Arkham Academy 'verse.
> 
> Poor Harley. She's pretty darn clever and badass, but she had a rough time getting to a good place in her life.
> 
> And even then, there came her downfall...
> 
> Harley's story originated in the Lovecraftian short story, 'The Statement of Randolph Carter,' where the titular character recounts the potential demise of his best friend, Harley Warren. As Lovecraft had little-to-no female characters in his original works for me to reference, I decided to do a female take on Warren, who is basically a blank slate to play with.
> 
> Ernest P. Aspinwall also is a 'canon' Lovecraft character. He's a distant cousin of Randolph, and appears in 'The Silver Key,' wherein he is still an asshole.
> 
> Also, yes! Crematories did have viewing windows in the 1920s! It also would've been quite the rogue choice for someone of the Warren's status to have a body cremated-thanks, Ask a Mortician!
> 
> I hope you are all well, and wish you luck and love.


End file.
